


vocant mors est

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Series: meum sol et luna [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek and Peter solve supernatural crimes, Derek and Stiles are married, Implied/Referenced Bottom!Derek, M/M, No Smut, Post canon, Solar Eclipse Fic Companion, Stiles Helps, Supernatural Solvers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 11:48:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11920269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Nearly twenty-One years later, hiding in a root cellar somewhere in the Midwest, Derek turns to Peter and says, “You lied.”





	vocant mors est

~ * ~

Nearly twenty-One years later, hiding in a root cellar somewhere in the Midwest, Derek turns to Peter and says, “You lied.”

Above them, they can hear the hunter’s boots marching, but thankfully, the eclipse is passing (probably already started by now) and they’ll be gone soon. After all, it’s only rumor that Peter and Derek are here.

“ _I_ lied?” Peter says.

Derek nods. “About Mom and Laura.” He reaches forward and thumps a solid hit on Peter’s shoulder. “You lied to me.”

“I’ve lied to you a lot,” Peter says, resignedly.

Above them, the hunters keep speaking in hushed whispers, which might as well be shouts to Derek and Peter’s straining ears.

“Hey,” one of the men says suddenly, and Derek sits up, shooting a worried glance at Peter. A quick sniff reveals nothing. No scent.

“Peter,” Derek hisses, “why did we hide here?”

“Because,” Peter says, face coloring—almost unnoticeable in the near complete darkness. “Because Chantal…”

Derek shakes his head. That’s Peter though, thinking with his dick and not his head. “Any other reason, like maybe it used to be for hiding werewolves during raids?”

Peter looks affronted. “There never were raids, just systematic destruction of families. You should know this.”

Derek pulls back, glares as hard as he can. It had taken years after he left Beacon Hills the second time to finally say and believe the words “I did not kill my family.”

To have Peter throw that in his face is abhorrent. But, again, it’s Peter. They always traded barbs when Derek was growing up. Just because they have more poison and hurt deeper now doesn’t mean they aren’t the same people they were.

Peter would dispute that point often, always reminding Derek that he survived the fire while Derek wasn’t even home.

“Lookit this,” the hunter above says, and Derek feels his ears pop.

He shares a worried glance with his uncle. “Mountain ash,” he mouths. If he had to guess, this entire house is surrounded by a barrier and the hunters have figured out how to close it.

“They’re locked in now,” another one says.

“Idiot, we don’t know that they’re here. We were just following what Jeb’s daughter said about her mysterious stranger.”

“You lied again,” Derek whispers. “This is a trap.”

“It probably wasn’t meant to be,” Peter argues. “Chantal didn’t seem untrustworthy when I last spoke with her.”

“Did you actually talk to her or were you busy with something else?” Derek snipes.

Peter lashes out, claws slashing through Derek’s sleeve and into the flesh below.

If they weren’t in immediate danger, Derek would retaliate, but he hears the hunters upstairs discussing just how best to determine if he and Peter are really in this building. So far, they’ve decided fire is too obvious and searching level by level isn’t ideal. One of the men, probably the same one that found the board, suggests dispersing wolfsbane bombs and then looking for them.

Peter and he share another panicked glance.

“Hey,” a new voice says, and Derek freezes. That’s Stiles. _His_ Stiles. Here. In a house full of hunters. Peter’s hand grips Derek’s shoulder and forces him to the ground.

“If you reveal us, you kill him too,” he hisses in Derek’s ear, the words hotter than his breath. Derek struggles for a few moments, his instincts demanding he join his husband in facing down this threat. It isn’t until he hears Stiles speak again that he relaxes in Peter’s grip, allowing Peter to back off too.

“The thing about total solar eclipses, though,” Stiles is saying, “is that while it doesn’t affect werewolves—not noticeably at least. I mean, my husband and me—we’ve found that it greatly enhances bedroom activities.” Over the sound of the hunters’ disgusted groans, Stiles plows on, adding, “Sparks, on the other hand. Oh, you’d better believe Sparks are more powerful during a total solar eclipse.”

At the sudden crackle of energy, Derek covers his head and grits his teeth, When Stiles uses his magic, it makes Derek’s whole body hum and usually forces him to shift. Peter doesn’t appear to be in any better shape, and he lets out a little whimper.

Above them, the group of hunters begins screaming. Gunfire breaks out, and Derek fights down the whine that bubbles up. Stiles hasn’t called for him yet, which means it’s still too dangerous for Derek to help him.

Surprisingly, Peter reaches out a hand and grips his forearm. Derek moves his free hand and grabs Peter’s arm too. He can feel his claws pricking Peter’s skin but he doesn’t have the faculty to pull them in.

His ears start ringing, the magic worming its way in until he’s panting from the pain. He sinks down, pressing his face into the musty dirt, gripping Peter’s arm hard until he’s positive the bones have broken.

“It’s over, it’s over. Derek, it’s over.” Peter shakes him, seconds, minutes, hours later. Peter’s own claws are deep in Derek’s shoulder, and his eyes blaze blue, no doubt matching Derek’s. “Stiles won. He’s trying to find the board that locked us in.”

“Fuck it,” Stiles says. “Brace yourselves.” Peter and Derek barely have time to re-cover their ears before the whole house explodes outward, every nail, board, sheet of drywall, support beam suspended above them while slowly, a series of decorative stepping stones descends into the root cellar where they’ve been hiding for more than three hours.

“Come on,” Stiles calls. He is standing on a pile of boards—the mountain ash—next to where the house used to stand, peering down at them. “Up, up. I need to see my husband and make sure he’s okay.”

“I’m fine too,” Peter calls up to him.

“I did not ask about the hell spawn so why am I hearing the hell spawn? Bring me my husband!”

Numb, probably from the relief of hearing Stiles’ voice (and seeing the sliver of face above the rim of earth), Derek allows Peter to help him up. There is only room for one each stone, so Derek pushes past his uncle and climbs to the next step. It dips slightly under his weight.

“Oh,” Stiles sighs, like he sometimes does when Derek brings him coffee or a bagel or kisses him. “I’m going to lift you out now, so hold on.”

Derek kneels, fitting his fingers into the grooves around the edges of the stone. Slowly, surely, it rises until it is level with the ground. Derek dismounts easily, stepping into Stiles’ waiting arms.

It’s like coming home after a long day meeting with other supernaturals seeking his help: a reset button that revitalizes him completely. Secretly, he thinks Stiles shares his surplus of magical energy.

Peter climbs out of the hole while Derek and Stiles are still locked in their embrace.

“I don’t see any bodies,” Peter remarks, exaggeratedly looking around.

“That’s because I banished them,” Stiles says. “Well, as far as Mort’s Bar back on I35. Oh, and Peter, you might want to go check on Chantal. She sounded pretty worried when I got to town here.”

As soon as Peter steps away from the foundation of the has-been house, Stiles tugs Derek with him, and with a depressurizing pop, the house reassembles itself, mountain ash boards and all.

“Seriously though, I am glad that you’re okay too,” Stiles says to Peter.

“Noted.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, my husband and I have about an hour left of this glorious natural phenomenon, and I’d really like to spend it rocking his world.”

A flash of disgust crosses Peter’s face, in complete disagreement with the way his scent goes almost sweet with fondness.

“Don’t celebrate too hard,” he advises. “Derek and I have that job in Salem, Arkansas tomorrow, and I’d appreciate it if he’s able to walk if not fight.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, tossing the keys to the Camaro to Peter. “We’ll take the shortcut. Have fun.”

“Be careful,” Derek calls because for all their faults and fights and Peter’s denial, they are still the same people who care about each other. Peter gives him a two-finger salute, and Stiles starts the teleportation process of gathering energy.

It’s over before Peter has even reached the Camaro, and Derek briefly touches their front porch railing, marveling at the ease with which Stiles has moved them thousands of miles in a second.

“So.” Stiles grins at him.

“So?” Derek repeats. He ducks his head, glancing up at his husband to study the way the mid afternoon sun catches on his eyes and makes the dark brown irises turn amber.

“So, I just saved your life…again. I think that deserves a reward.”

“Hmm.” Derek pretends to think about it before lunging forward to scoop Stiles into his arms and heft him over his shoulder. “Yeah, I think you deserve a _really_ nice reward. Oh, and Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“I heal quickly.”

Stiles’ magic surges and the front door swings open. “Yeah?” Stiles repeats, hoarsely, his scent equal parts magic, arousal, and love.

“Yeah,” Derek replies, heading for the stairs. Stiles can get the door.

~ * ~

**Author's Note:**

> Posted at [my Tumblr](http://1989dreamer.tumblr.com/post/164666370250/vocant-mors-est)


End file.
